


Eidetic

by tastewithouttalent



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Age Difference, Developing Relationship, Hospitalization, Inline with canon, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Photography, Pining, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "There’s as many reasons to refrain now as he has ever had; but behind his eyelids he can see Jean staring wide-eyed into the lens of his camera, can see the paper crown clinging askew to the tangle of golden hair, and all reasons are rendered irrelevant by the part of the other’s lips." Nino is at good at framing his life as he is at documenting Jean's.





	

The first time is prom night, or rather the early hours of the morning after, when the dancing and music and laughter gives way the silence of the empty house and the dim lighting of the darkroom Nino goes to without bothering to change out of his rented suit. He leaves the film there, to be dealt with in the morning when he has more time and steadier hands; and then he sheds his borrowed formalwear, and he gets himself a drink, and he lies down across the couch with the cool of the glass next to him dripping condensation onto the table while he pushes his clothes off his hips and drapes his loose-sleeved arm across his shut eyes. There’s as many reasons to refrain now as there have ever been; but behind his eyelids he can see Jean staring wide-eyed into the lens of his camera, can see the paper crown clinging askew to the tangle of golden hair, and all reasons are rendered irrelevant by the part of the other’s lips.

Nino comes in a rush, shuddering into relief under a few quick strokes of his hand and the release of the self-restraint he has been clinging to for so long. He’s left breathless and shaky on his couch, breathing hard into the darkness of his shut eyes and wondering if the heat of the sweat clinging to his skin will serve as developing fluid for whatever picture he is now to become.

 

The next: graduation, surrounded by classmates overflowing with a childish enthusiasm that makes Nino feel the weight of his unstated years like they’re visible against the line of his uniform jacket. Jean quiet, reserved, standing against a wall with a slouch that speaks more to his casual comfort than to uncertain stress; and the tilt of his head, the tug of a smile at his lips that curves up into the rare sincerity that Nino always treasures. Nino stares back at him, feels his heart caving in on itself; and lifts his camera as a self-defense measure, like he can hide behind the lens as effectively as he’s hidden behind the glasses his father gave him those years ago.

He refuses Jean’s offer to walk home together, pleads a need to change before he comes over for the celebratory dinner Lotta is making for the three of them. He stands gasping under the spray of his shower with his hand clenched tight around himself and his mind awash with the thought of that smile, and he wonders how it is that Jean can make him feel so much warmer than the water running his skin to red with too-much heat.

 

Pictures are enough all on their own, sometimes, when Nino has a bottle of wine to himself to ease the path of his lonely evening. He has negatives carefully saved from years of work, his father’s and his own together; more recently he makes duplicates for himself, as if to fill in his absence in the shots by the multiplication of the photos themselves. The images are candid, for the most part; Jean hardly sees Nino’s camera anymore, after years of looking up into the _click_ of the shutter closing. There’s a few Nino likes best, ones that capture the curve of Jean’s neck down against the soft collar of his t-shirt, or the dip of his lashes as he leans in over a book open on his desk, or the curve of his lips on one of those rare smiles that always stutter Nino’s heart on an arrhythmia he’s come to view as a familiar friend, by now.

One is from a winter afternoon at the Otus’s apartment, when Lotta had the sweep of plate glass left bare for the crystalline brilliance of the winter sunlight to stream in over the whole of the living room. Jean had been sick, Nino remembers, just recovering from a cold that left him stuffy and mildly irritable for a week; in the photograph he’s asleep across the couch, his face turned down into the pillow so his red eyes and swollen nose are hidden under the soft fall of that golden hair. One arm is thrown out sideways to drape over the edge of the couch, one leg is kicked up against the end where Nino had been sitting; the shot is in sharp perspective, with the line of Jean’s leg coming up towards the viewer before the edge of the photograph cuts it out of visibility.

Every time Nino looks at the picture he can feel the weight of Jean’s leg pressing against the dip of his spine, can feel the heat of the other’s body pinning his shirt flush against his skin with unconscious weight. He leans back against the arm of his own couch, the picture caught between his fingers as he unfastens his pants and lets his head fall back against the support behind him, and he lets the burn of his own desire run through him like a years-long fever that refuses to break.

 

The first time Nino sees Jean smoking he has to leave halfway through their lunch date, has to invent some flimsy excuse about an upset stomach just to get himself away from the fit of Jean’s lips against the curve of the cigarette and the angle of his wrist as he braces the lighter in his hand to catch the paper alight. He locks the door to his apartment as soon as he’s inside, rests his shoulders against the support and ducks his head forward, and he comes with Jean’s name in his throat and Jean’s lips in his dizzy thoughts.

 

Drinking is a danger, Nino knows; but he’s earned a high school diploma that speaks to his father’s recklessness, and after all he is his father’s son. Jean can’t hold his alcohol at all; Nino can, or at least well enough to keep his own mouth shut while Jean tips forward over the table and slurs into half-formed confessions about Director-General Mauve that always veer around to Section Chief Grossular for reasons Nino doesn’t think Jean could explain even if he tried. Nino keeps Jean’s glass full, and keeps his own lips curved on a smile, and keeps his own confessions tied up against the inside of his chest where they have made their home for a span of years counted like the shine of wedding anniversaries in his mind.

Nino is always willing to carry Jean home, when he needs it, to support the slack weight of the other’s unsteady movement at the back of his bike, when Nino’s more sober, or with an arm over his shoulder, when he’s less so. Lotta’s the one who tells him to stay the night, who insists it’s no trouble for them both to sleep on the couch for the evening; and it’s Nino who accepts, who takes the too-much temptation with the careless ease of intoxication in him.

He waits until Jean is asleep and snoring faintly against the couch next to him before he retreats to the bathroom, locks the door and turns on the faucet to drown out the rush of his breathing as he struggles through the haze of alcohol to find the relief of orgasm. It takes longer than usual, he thinks; but Jean is still asleep by the time Nino emerges, and the sound of his breathing is enough to tip Nino sideways and into the dark of unconsciousness absent even the familiarity of his usual dreams of gold.

 

Another: In Dōwā, in the dark of the tiny hotel room Nino has for himself, with the words of his own secret history hanging around him to merge and blend with the vague memories of a childhood some thirty years gone. His camera on the table in front of him, his knees on the floor, and Nino comes with tears in his eyes and a plea on his lips, like he’s asking for forgiveness from the only god he’s ever cared to follow.

 

Nino’s injuries strain his breathing and steal his sleep; he spends his nights in the Furawau hospital lying still under the crisp white of the blankets, staring at the ceiling while his mind hums with the vague awareness that comes with the pain medication that only dampens and does not cease the hurt. But at the front of his thoughts, with all the clarity of a subject in-focus over a blurred-out background: Jean’s mouth tight on a frown, Jean’s forehead creased on unhappiness, Jean’s voice snapping raw with emotion Nino has never heard from him before. _I’ve always had fun_ , Jean had said; and Nino is left to stare at the blank ceiling of his hospital room and see nothing but Jean’s face in his mind.

The pain is too much to allow for the distraction of physical pleasure, but that doesn’t stop Nino’s chest from going tight with the want that sweeps over him

 

And now: gold hair, blue eyes, the huff of breathing too immediate and real for Nino to fit it in any one of the fantasies worn familiar by years of repetition. “Nino,” Jean says, and “like that,” with the casual command that comes so easy to his lips; and Nino obeys, his lips parted but his voice silent because he doesn’t know what to say, like this, with Jean’s bare skin warm against his own and far closer than the lens of his camera ever let him have. It’s overwhelming, it’s too much to believe, too much to bear; and Jean is arching up under him, his body curving into a line of elegance as his voice breaks over a shout of heat, and Nino finds his voice again in “ _Jean_ ,” spilling over into a sob as he presses his forehead against the shift of Jean’s collarbone and his whole body comes alight with more happiness than he knew existed in the world. Nino’s shaking, hands and shoulders and legs all quivering with the force of the emotion running through him, like he’s going to fall apart right where they are across Nino’s bed; and Jean sighs satisfaction, and against Nino’s scalp there’s the press of fingers, the weight of a touch gentle with affection. Nino chokes on a breath, presses his eyes shut tight; and turns his head until he can press his lips to the inside of Jean’s wrist to make an offering of the ragged edges of his breathing.

He’s never let himself be on this side of the frame before.


End file.
